下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
Mrs. Ormonde lingered as long as she could. Bond Street was paradise to her, Regent Street an Elysian Field. While she staid she gave her sister-in-law little peace, and until she had departed Katherine did not attempt to go into business matters with Mr. Newton. She was half amused, half disgusted, at Mrs. Ormonde's perpetual reminders, hints, and innuendoes touching the settlement on her boys. Ada was the same as ever, yet Katherine liked her for the sake of the memories she evoked and shared.
It was quite a relief when she left town, and Katherine felt once more her own mistress. Her heart yearned for her little nephews, but she felt it was wiser to wait and see them at home rather than send for them at present. She greatly feared that the new baby, the son of a living, prosperous father, was pushing the sons of the first husband—who had taken his unlucky self out of the world, where he had been anything but a success—from their place in her affections.
Meantime she held frequent consultations with Mr. Newton, who was very devoted to her service, and anxious to do his best for her. He remonstrated earnestly with her on her over-generosity to her nephews. "Provide for them if you will, my dear young lady, but believe me you are by no means called upon to divide your property with them. Do not make them too independent of you; hold something in your hand. Besides, you do not know what considerations may arise to make you regret too great liberality."
"I have very little use for money now," said Katherine, sadly.
"You have always been remarkably moderate in your expenditure," returned the lawyer, who had the entire management of her affairs. "But now you will probably like to establish yourself in London, say, for headquarters."
"Not for the present. I shall stay where I am until some plan of life suggests itself."
"Perhaps you are right, and certainly you are a very prudent young lady."
This conversation took place in Mr. Newton's office, and after some further discussion Katherine was persuaded to settle a third instead of the half of her property on her nephews, out of which a jointure was to be paid to Mrs. Ormonde.
"I wish I could have the boys with me," said Katherine, as she rose to leave Mr. Newton.
"My dear Miss Liddell, take care how you saddle yourself with the difficult task of standing in loco parentis ; leave the very serious responsibilities of bringing up boys to the mother whose they are. At your age, and with the almost certainty of forming new ties, such a step would be very imprudent."
"At all events I shall see how they all get on at Castleford before I commit myself to anything. You will lose no time, dear Mr. Newton, in getting this deed ready for my signature. I do not want to say anything about it till it is 'signed, sealed, and delivered.'"
"It shall be put in hand at once. When shall you be going out of town?"
"Not for ten days or a fortnight."
"The sooner the better. I do not like to see you look so pale and sad. Excuse me if I presume in saying so. Well, I don't think your uncle ever did a wiser act than in destroying that will of his before he made another. The extraordinary instinct he had about money must have warned him that his precious fortune would be best bestowed on so prudent yet so generous a young lady as yourself."
"Don't praise me, Mr. Newton," said Katherine, sharply. "Could you see me as I see myself, you would know how little I deserve it."
"I am sure I should know nothing of the kind," returned the old lawyer, smiling. Katherine was a prime favorite with him—quite his ideal of a charming and admirable woman. All he hoped was that when the sharp edge of her grief had worn off she would mix in society and marry some highly placed man worthy of her, a Q.C., if one young enough could be found, who was on the direct road to the woolsack.
The evening of this day Bertie Payne came in, as he often did after dinner. Katherine was always pleased to see him. He brought a breath of genial life into the rather glacial atmosphere of Miss Payne's drawing-room. Yet there was something soothing to Katherine in the orderly quiet of the house, in the conviction, springing from she knew not what, that Miss Payne liked her heartily in her steady, undemonstrative fashion. She never interfered with Katherine in any way; she was ready to go with her when asked, or to let her young guest go on her own business alone and unquestioned, while she saw to her comfort, and proved much more companionable than Katherine expected.
On this particular evening which marked a new mental epoch for Katherine Liddell, the two companions were sitting by the fire in Miss Payne's comfortable though rather old-fashioned drawing-room, the curtains drawn, the hearth aglow, Miss Payne engaged on a large piece of patchwork which she had been employed upon for years, while Katherine read aloud to her. This was a favorite mode of passing the evening; it saved the trouble of inventing conversation—for Miss Payne was not loquacious—and it was more sympathetic than reading to one's self. Miss Payne, it need scarcely be said, had no patience with novels; biography and travels were her favorite studies; nor did she disdain history, though given to be sceptical concerning accounts of what had happened long ago. She had never been so happy and comfortable with any of her protegees as with Katherine, though, as she observed to her brother, she did not expect it to last. "Stay till she is a little known, and the mothers of marriageable sons get about her; then it will be the old thing over again—dress, drive, dance, hurry-scurry from morning till night. However, I'll make the most of the present."
Miss Payne, then, and her "favored guest" were cozily settled for the evening when Bertie entered.
"May I present myself in a frock coat?" he asked, as he shook hands with Katherine. "I have had rather a busy day, and found myself in your neighborhood just now, so could not resist looking in."
"At your usual work, I suppose," said Miss Payne, severely. "Pray have you had anything to eat?"
"Yes, I assure you. I dined quite luxuriously at Bethnal Green about an hour and a half ago."
"Ha! at a coffee-stall, I suppose; a cup of coffee and a ha'p'orth of bread. I must insist on your having some proper food." Miss Payne put forth her hand toward the bell as she spoke.
"Do not give yourself the trouble; I really do not want anything, nor will I take anything beyond a cup of tea." Bertie drew a chair beside Katherine, asked what she was reading, and talked a little about the news of the day. Then he fell into silence, his eyes fixed on the fire, a very grave expression stilling his face.
"What are you thinking of?" asked his sister. "What misery have you been steeping yourself in to-day?"
"Misery indeed," he echoed. Then, meeting Katherine's eyes fixed upon him, he smiled. "Of course I see misery every day," he continued, "but I don't like to trouble you with too much of it. To-day I met with an unusually hard case, and I am going to ask you for some help toward righting it."
"Tell me what you want," said Katherine.
"Are you sure the story is genuine?" asked Miss Payne.
"I am quite sure. I went into Bow Street Police Court to-day, intending to speak to the sitting magistrate about some children respecting whom he had asked for information, when I was attracted by the face of a woman who was being examined; she was poorly clad, but evidently respectable—like a better class of needle-woman. I never saw a face express such despair. It seemed she had been caught in the act of stealing two loaves from the shop of a baker. The poor creature did not deny it. Her story was that she had been for some years a widow; that she had supported herself and two children by needle-work and machine-work. Illness had impoverished her and diminished her connection, other workers having been taken on in her absence. In short she had been caught in that terrible maelstrom of misfortune from which no one can escape without a helping hand. Her sewing machine was seized for rent; one article after another of furniture and clothes went for food; at last nothing was left. She roamed the city, reduced to beg at last, and striving to make up her mind to go to the workhouse, the cry of the hungry children she had left in her ears. At several bakers' shops she had petitioned for food and had been refused. At last, entering one while the shop-girl's back was turned, she snatched a couple of small loaves and rushed out into the arms of a policeman, who had seen the theft through the window."
"And would the magistrate punish her for this?" asked Katherine, eagerly.
"He must. Theft is theft, whatever the circumstances that seem to extenuate it. Nothing, no need, gives a right to take what does not belong to you. But, for all that, I am certain the poor creature has been honest hitherto, and deserves help. She is committed to prison for stealing, and I promised her I would look to her children; so I have been to see them, and took them to the Children's Refuge that you were kind enough to subscribe to, Miss Liddell. To-morrow we must do what we can for the mother. I imagine it is worse than death to her to be put in prison."
"I do not wonder at it," ejaculated Miss Payne. "And in spite of what you say, Bertie, I should not like to give any materials to be made up by a woman who deliberately stole in broad daylight."
"I do not see that the light made any difference," returned Bertie; and they plunged into a warm discussion. Katherine soon lost the sense of what they were saying. Her heart was throbbing as if a sudden stunning blow had been dealt her, and the words, "Theft is theft, whatever the circumstances that seem to extenuate it," beat as if with a sledge-hammer on her brain.
If for a theft, value perhaps sixpence, this poor woman, who had been driven to it by the direst necessity, was exposed to trial, to the gaze of careless lookers-on, to loss of character, to the exposure of her sore want, to the degradation of imprisonment, what should be awarded to her, Katherine Liddell, an educated gentlewoman, for stealing a large fortune from its rightful owner, and that, too, under no pressure of immediate distress? True, she firmly believed that had her uncle not been struck down by death he would have left her a large portion of it; that she had a better right to it than a stranger. Still that did not alter the fact that she was a thief. If every one thus dared to infringe the rights of others, what law, what security would remain?
These ideas had never quite left her since the day she had written "Manuscript to be destroyed" on the fatal little parcel, which had been ever with her during her various journeyings since. More than once she had made up her mind to destroy it, but some influence—some terror of destroying this expression of what her uncle once wished—had stayed her hand; her courage stopped there. Perhaps a faint foreshadowing of some future act of restitution caused this reluctance, unknown to herself, but certainly at present no such possibility dawned upon her. She felt that she held her property chiefly in trust for others, especially her nephews. Often she had forgotten her secret during her mother's lifetime, but the consciousness of it always returned with a sense of being out of moral harmony, which made her somewhat fitful in her conduct, particularly as regarded her expenditure, being sometimes tempted to costly purchases, and anon shrinking from outlay as though not entitled to spend the money which was nominally hers. Nathan's parable did not strike more humiliating conviction to Israel's erring king than Bertie Payne's "ower true tale." At length she mastered these painful thoughts, and sought relief from them in speech.
"What do you think of doing for this poor woman?" she asked, taking a screen to shelter her face from the fire and observation.
"I have not settled details in my own mind yet," he said; "but as soon as she is released I must get her into a new neighborhood and redeem her sewing-machine. Then, if we can get her work and help her till she begins to earn a little, she may get on."
"Pray let me help in this," said Katherine, earnestly. "I live quite a selfish life, and I should be thankful if you will let me furnish what money you require."
"That I shall with great thankfulness. But, Miss Liddell, if you are anxious to find interesting work, why not come and see our Children's Refuge and the schools connected with it? Then there is an association for advancing small sums to workmen in time of sickness, or to redeem their tools, which is affiliated to a ladies' visiting club, the members of which make themselves acquainted personally with the men and their families."
"I shall be most delighted to go with you to both, but I do not think I could do any good myself. I am so reluctant to preach to poor people, who have so much more experience, so much more real knowledge of life, than I have, merely because they are poor."
"I do not want you to do so, but I think personal contact with the people you relieve is good both for those benefited and their benefactor."
"I suppose it is; and those poor old people who cannot read or are blind, I am quite willing to read to them if they like it."
"I can find plenty for you to do, Miss Liddell," Bertie was beginning when his sister broke in with:
"This is quite too bad, Bertie. You know I will not have you dragging my young friends to catch all sorts of disorders in the slums. You must be content with Miss Liddell's money."
"Miss Payne, I really do wish to see something of the work on which your brother is engaged, and—forgive me if I seem obstinate—I am resolved to help him if I can."
The result of the conversation was that the greater portion of the contents of Miss Liddell's purse was transferred to Bertie's, and he left them in high spirits, having arranged to call for Katherine the next day in order to escort her to the Children's Refuge and some other institutions in which he took an interest.
From this time for several weeks Katherine was greatly occupied in the benevolent undertakings of her new friend. The endless need, the degradations of extreme poverty, the hopeless condition of such masses of her fellow-creatures, depressed her beyond description. She would gladly have given to her uttermost farthing, but it would be a mere drop in the ocean of misery around.
"Even if we could supply their every want, and give each family a decent home," she said to Bertie one evening as she walked back with him, "they would not know how to keep it or to enjoy it. If the men, and the women too, have not the tremendous necessity to labor that they may live, they relax and become mere brutes. We must, above all things, educate them."
"Yes, education is certainly necessary; but the most ignorant being who has laid hold on the Rock of Ages, who has received the spirit of adoption whereby he can cry, 'Abba, Father!' has a means of elevation and refinement beyond all that books and art can teach," cried Bertie, with more warmth than he usually allowed himself to show.
"You believe that? I cannot say I do. We need other means of moral and intellectual life besides spiritualism. At least I have tried to be religious, but I always get weary."
"That is only because you have not found the straight and true road," said Bertie, earnestly. "Pray, my dear Miss Liddell—pray, and light will be given you."
"Thank you—you are very good," murmured Katherine "At all events, though we can do but little, it is a comfort to help some of these poor creatures, especially the children and old people."
"It is," he returned. "And if it be consolatory to minister to their physical wants, how much more to feed their immortal souls!"
Katherine was silent for a few minutes, and then said: "It is impossible they can think much about their souls when they suffer so keenly in their bodies. Poverty and privation which destroy self-respect cannot allow of spiritual aspiration. Is it to be always like this—one class steeped in luxury, the other grovelling in cruel want?"
"Our Lord says, 'Ye have the poor always with you,'" returned Bertie. "Nor can we hope to see the curse of original sin lifted from life here below until the great manifestation; in short, till Shiloh come."
"Do you think so? I do not like to think that Satan is too strong for God," said Katherine, thoughtfully.
Bertie replied by exhorting her earnestly not to trust to mere human reason, to accept the infallible word of God, "and so find safety and rest." Katherine did not reply.
"I think you could help me in a difficult case," said Bertie, a few days after this conversation.
"Indeed!" said Katherine, looking up from the book she was reading by the fire after dinner. "What help can I possibly give?"
"Hear my story, and you will see."
"I shall be most happy if I can help you. Pray go on."
"You know Dodd, the porter and factotum at the Children's Refuge? Well, Dodd has a mother, a very respectable old dame, who keeps a very mild sweety shop, and also sells newspapers, etc. Mrs. Dodd, besides these sources of wealth, lets lodgings, and seems to get on pretty well. Now Dodd came to me in some distress, and said, 'Would you be so good, sir, as to see mother? she wants a word with you bad, very bad.' I of course said I was very ready to hear what she had to say. So I called at the little shop, which I often pass. I found the old lady in great trouble about a young woman who had been lodging with her for some time. She, Mrs. Dodd, did not know that her lodger was absolutely ill, but she scarcely eats anything, she never went out, she sometimes sat up half the night. Hitherto she had paid her rent regularly, but on last rent-day she had said she could only pay two weeks more, after which she supposed she had better go to the workhouse. When first she came she used to go out looking for work, but that ceased, and she seemed in a half-conscious state. As I was a charitable gentleman, would I go and speak to her? Well, rather reluctantly, I did. I went upstairs to a dreary back room, and found a decidedly lady-like young woman, neatly dressed enough, but ghastly white with dull eyes. She seemed to be dusting some books, but looked too weary to do much. She was not surprised or moved in any way at seeing me. When I apologized for intruding upon her, she murmured that I was very good. Then I asked if I could help her in any way. She thanked me, but suggested nothing. When I pressed her to express her needs, she said that life was not worth working for, but that she supposed they would give her something to do in the workhouse, and she would do it. As for seeking work, she could not, that she was a failure, and only cared not to trouble others. I was quite baffled. She was so quiet and gentle, and spoke with such refinement, that I was deeply interested. I called again this morning, and she would hardly answer me. As she is young (not a great deal older than yourself), perhaps a lady—a woman—might win her confidence. She seems to have been a dressmaker. Could you not offer her some employment, and draw her from the extraordinary lethargy which seems to dull her faculties? No mind can hold out against it; she will die or become insane."
"It is very strange. I should be very glad to help her, but I feel afraid to attempt anything. I shall be so awkward. What can I say to begin with?"
"Your offering her work would make an opening. Do try. I am sure her case needs a woman's delicate touch."
"I will do my best," said Katherine. "It all sounds terribly interesting. Shall I go to-morrow?"
"Yes, by all means. I am so very much obliged to you. I feel you will succeed."
"Don't be too sure."
The next day, a drizzling damp morning, Katherine, feeling unusually nervous, was quite ready when Bertie called for her. The drive to Camden Town seemed very long, but it came to an end at last, all the sooner because Bertie stopped the cab some little way way from the sweety shop.
"I have brought a young lady to see your invalid," said Bertie, introducing Katherine to Mrs. Dodd, a short broad old lady, with a shawl neatly pinned over her shoulders, a snowy white cap with black ribbons, and a huge pair of spectacles, over which she seemed always trying to look.
"I'm sure it's that kind of you, sir. And I am glad you have come. The poor thing has been offering me a nice black dress this morning to let her stay on. It's the last decent thing she has. I expect she has been just living on her clothes. I'll go and tell her. Maybe miss will come after me, so as not to give her time to say no?"
Katherine cast a troubled look at Bertie. "Don't wait for me," she said; "your time is always so precious. I dare say I can get a cab for myself." And she followed Mrs. Dodd up a steep narrow dark stair.
"Here is a nice lady come to see you," said Mrs. Dodd, in a soothing tone suited to an infant or a lunatic.
"No, no; I don't want any lady; I would rather not see any lady," cried a voice naturally sweet-toned, but now touched with shrill terror. Curiously enough, this token of fear gave Katherine courage. Here was some poor soul wanting comfort sorely.
"Do not forbid me to come in," she said, walking boldly into the room, and addressing the inmate with a kind bright smile. "I very much want some needle-work done, and I shall be glad if you will undertake it." While she spoke, Mrs. Dodd retired and softly closed the door. Katherine found herself face to face with a ladylike-looking young woman, small and slight—slight even to extreme thinness—fair-skinned, with large blue eyes, delicate features, a quantity of fair hair carelessly coiled up, and with white cheeks. The strange pallor of her trembling lips, the despair in her eyes, the shrinking, hunted look of face and figure, almost frightened her visitor. "I hope you are not vexed with me for coming in," faltered Katherine, deferentially; "but they said you wanted employment, and I should like to give you some. You must be ill, you look so pale. Can I not be of some use to you?"
The girl's pale cheek flushed as, partially recovering herself, she stood up holding the back of her chair, her eyes fixed on the floor; she seemed endeavoring to speak, but the words did not come. At last, in a low, hesitating voice: "You are too good. I have tried to find work vainly; now I do not think I have the force to do any." The color faded away from the poor sunken cheeks, and the eyes hid themselves persistently under the downcast lids.
"I am sure you are very weak," returned Katherine, tenderly, for there was something inexpressibly touching in the hopelessness of the stranger's aspect. "But some good food and the prospect of employment will set you up, When you are a little stronger and know me better you will perhaps tell me how Mr. Payne and I can best help you. We all want each other's help at times; and life must not be thrown away, you know. I do not wish to intrude upon you, but you see we are nearly of an age, and we ought to understand and help each other. It is my turn now; it may be yours by-and-by."
"Mine!" with unspeakable bitterness.
"Do sit down," said Katherine, who felt her tears very near her eyes, "and I will sit by you for a little while. Why, you are unfit to stand, and you are so cold!" She pulled off her gloves, and taking one of the poor girl's hands in both her own soft warm ones, chafed it gently. No doubt practically charitable people would smile indulgently at Katherine's enthusiastic sympathy; but she was new to such work, and felt that she had to deal with no common subject. Whether it was the tender tone or the kindly touch, but the hard desperate look softened, and big tears began to roll down, and soon she was weeping freely, quietly, while she left her hand in Katherine's, who held it in silence, feeling how the whole slight frame shook with the effort to control herself.
At length Katherine rose and went downstairs to take counsel with Mrs. Dodd. "She seems quite unable to recover herself. Ought she not to have a little wine or something?"
"Yes, miss; it's just that she wants. She is nigh starved to death."
"Have you any wine?"
"Well, no, miss; but there's a tavern round the corner where you can get very good port from the wood. I'll send the girl for a pint."
"Pray do, and quickly, and some biscuits or something; here is some money. What is her name?"
"Trant—Miss Trant," returned Mrs. Dodd, knowing who her interrogator meant. "Leastways we always called her miss, for she is quite the lady."
Katherine hurried back, and found Miss Trant lying back in her chair greatly exhausted. With instinctive tact Katherine assumed an air of authority, and insisted on her patient eating some biscuits soaked in wine.
Presently Miss Trant sat up, and, as if with an effort raised her eyes to Katherine's. "I am not worth so much trouble," she said. "You deserve that I should obey you. It is all I can do to show gratitude. If, then, you will be content with very slow work, I will thankfully do what you wish; but I must have time."
"So you shall," cried Katherine, delightedly. "You shall have plenty of time to make me a dress; that will be more amusing than plain work. I will bring you the material to-morrow, and if you fit me well, you know, it may lead to a great business;" and she smiled pleasantly.
"What is your name?" asked the patient, feebly. Katherine told her. "You are so good, you make me resigned to live."
"Do you care to read?"
"I used to love it; but I have no books, nor could I attend to the sense of a page if I had."
"If you sit here without book or work, I do not wonder at your being half dead."
"Not nearly half dead yet; dying by inches is a terribly long process. I am dreadfully strong."
"I will not listen to you if you talk like that. Well, I will bring you some books—indeed, I will send you some at once if you will promise to read and divert your thoughts. To-morrow afternoon I will come, you shall take my measure (I like to be made to look nice), and you shall begin again."
"Begin again! Me! That would be a miracle."
"Now try and get a little sleep," said Katherine, "your eyes look so weary. You want to stop thinking, and only sleep can still thought. When you wake you shall find some of the new magazines, and you must try and attend to them."
"I will, for your sake."
"Good-by, then, till to-morrow;" and having pressed her hand kindly, Katherine departed.
It was quite a triumph for Katherine to report her success to Bertie that evening. Miss Payne rather shook her head over the whole affair.
"I must say it puts me on edge altogether to hear you two rejoicing over this young woman's condescension in accepting the work you lay at her feet, while such crowds of starving wretches are begging and praying for something to do; and here is a mysterious young woman with lady-like manners and remarkable eyes, taken up all at once because she won't eat and refuses to speak. It isn't just. I suspect there is something in her past she does not like to tell."
"Your resume of the facts makes Mr. Payne and me seem rather foolish," said Katherine. "Yet I am convinced she is worth helping, and that no common methods will do to restore to her any relish for life. She interests me. I may be throwing away my time and money, but I will risk it."
"It is hard to say, of course, whether she is a deserving object or not," added Bertie, thoughtfully; "and I have been taken in more than once."
"More than once?" echoed his sister in a peculiar tone.
"Still, I feel with Miss Liddell that this girl's, Rachel Trant's, is not a common case," continued Bertie.
"Her very name is suggestive of grief," said Katherine, "and she, too, refuses to be comforted. I am sure she will tell me her story later. Her landlady says she never receives or sends a letter, and does not seem to have a creature belonging to her. Such desolation is appalling."
"And shows there is something radically wrong," added Miss Payne.
"I acknowledge that it has a dubious appearance," said Bertie, and turned the conversation.
Katherine was completely taken out of herself by the interest and curiosity excited by her meeting with Rachel Trant. She visited her daily, and saw that she was slowly reviving. She took a wonderful interest in the dress which Katherine had given her to make, and, moreover, succeeded in fitting her admirably. She was evidently weak and unequal to exertion, yet she worked with surprising diligence. Her manner was very grave and collected—respectful, yet always ready to respond to Katherine's effort to draw her out.
The subject on which she spoke most readily was the books Katherine lent her. Her taste was decidedly intelligent and rather solid. To the surprise of her young benefactress, she expressed a distaste for novels—stories, as she called them. "I used to care for nothing else," she said; "but they pain me now." She expressed herself like an educated, even refined, woman; and though she said very little about gratitude, it showed in every glance, in the very tone of her voice, and in her ready obedience to whatever wish Katherine expressed. The greatest sacrifice was evidently compliance with her new friend's suggestion that she should take exercise and breathe fresh air.
Miss Payne, after critically examining Katherine's new garment, declared it really well made, inquired the cost, and finally decided that she would have an every-day dress for herself, and that "Miss Trant" should make it up. Then Katherine presented the elegant young woman who waited on her with a gown, promising to pay for the making if she employed her protegee.
"Miss Trant" could not conceal her reluctance to come so far from the wilds of Camden Town; but she came, closely muffled in a thick gauze veil, doubtless to guard against cold in the chill March evening. Katherine was immensely pleased to find that both gowns gave satisfaction, though the "elegant young woman's" praise was cautious and qualified.